


Stick Figures

by Joules Mer (joulesmer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-18 21:14:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5943307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joulesmer/pseuds/Joules%20Mer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft’s death splashed across the news on a Wednesday, just three weeks after Sherlock’s own return to the living.</p><p>Standalone shortly after Sherlock’s return in a Mary-less world, but if you want a backstory for that try <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5819023/chapters/13410244">A Winter Homecoming</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Day

John settled more deeply into his chair, tucking his green bathrobe more tightly around himself and cupping a mug of tea. The BBC world news prattled away on the telly: the migrant crisis, a falling Euro, a minor celebrity scandal. There was a plate of toast balanced on his knee, slathered in the Suffolk honey Sherlock preferred. He'd been buying it a lot lately in an effort to get Sherlock to put on a little weight-- the other man still too thin after his return from Serbia.

There was a clatter in the kitchen and Sherlock emerged in a swirl of blue silk dressing gown-- the one Mrs Hudson referred to as his second best. What made his best superior to the present one, John couldn't tell.

Sherlock nabbed a piece of toast off John’s own plate, which he was only halfheartedly admonished for, then settled cross-legged on the sofa and started pecking at the keys on his laptop.

The detective had posted another article on his blog the night before: a detailed treatise on the soil composition of the various royal parks and their in situ decomposition rates. John wasn't holding his breath for it to be a runaway hit, but at least the week of tracking down dead pigeons was over.

John was dimly aware of the images on the television changing to a breaking news story about a terrorist attack somewhere: billowing smoke and bloodied survivors being carried out of a wreck of a building. Yemen, according to the map. The blossom of scar tissue on his shoulder gave a sympathetic twinge and John couldn’t help but frown. 

Sherlock huffed from the couch, no doubt disappointed in his hit counter. John studiously ignored him, lest the solution be to conduct a follow-up study. Another, deliberate, bite of toast and a glance towards Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock had his phone out and was actually ringing someone. A rarity for the man who preferred to text.

Oh, God, thought John: what if he was ringing up his hosting service again? Kitchen. Now. Bathrobe flapping, he retreated. Not that the kitchen was much better. There was something unmentionable defrosting in the sink and it looked like they were almost out of milk. Again. John deposited his plate and mug on the counter and surveyed the cupboards. Forget milk, they were out of just about everything. 

It was an old routine: John shopped, ate, force-fed Sherlock (although that had been less of a challenge since his return), and shopped again. Despite himself, he was still happy to be stuck in it again. Sherlock’s return still had a miraculous quality to it; new enough that he didn’t dare take it for granted.

Wednesday morning and nothing on. He’d quit his regular hours at the clinic three weeks ago; almost immediately after Sherlock had appeared. At least the publicity was dying down and they were back to the beginnings of regular case work again. John stuck his head back into the front room just as _Breaking: British casualties in Sana’a_ scrolled across the telly. “Going to pop to the shops. Want anything?”

Sherlock didn’t even look up from his laptop. “Toothpicks, a five-hundred ninety-two millilitre container of Fairy non-bio washing gel, and cigarettes.”

“Yes to the first two, no to the third.”

Sherlock huffed, and as John headed towards the bedroom to get dressed called out a reminder, “Five-hundred ninety-two millilitres!”

By the time John was peering at different bottles of laundry detergent and wondering if perhaps he should buy Sherlock some nicotine patches his mobile ringing was a welcome distraction. Fumbling with the basket, he thumbed the call through without looking at the screen.

“Parchment paper.”

“What?”

Sherlock’s eyeroll at having to repeat himself was almost audible, “Parchment paper. I need toothpicks, a 592 millilitre container of Fairy non-bio washing gel, and parchment paper. It’s for an experiment.”

John pulled the phone away from his ear for a second, then pressed it back in place, “Why did you ring?”

“Sherlock did sigh at that, “Because I need toothpicks…”

“No, wait!” John interjected, silencing the other man so he could say, “You prefer to text, Sherlock.” 

“You’re more likely to answer a call while shopping than check a text.”

“But you always text.”

“I leave you to your deductions.” The line disconnected with a little blip.

“Whatever,” murmured John, under his breath. He dropped the correct bottle of detergent into his bag and headed towards the baking section.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Sherlock hadn’t moved from the couch, but there was a furrow in his forehead that usually accompanied a disagreeable client.

Carrier bags banged against John’s knee as he made his way into the kitchen, calling back over his shoulder, “What’s up? Client?”

“He’s not answering.”

John wracked his brains, surely he’d remember if there was a case commitment. Coming up blank, he had to ask, “Who?”

There was a sourness in Sherlock’s tone when he replied, “Mycroft.”

First time _not_ being able to get in touch with Mycroft had ever been raised as a concern. John shrugged and continued to put away the groceries. “He’s probably in a meeting or something. Having tea at the palace, covering up an international incident, accidentally losing a nuclear submarine. That sort of thing.”

Sherlock laughed, but it almost sounded to be in spite of himself.

Something occurred to John that made him pause, placing a jar of jam on the counter instead of the cupboard. “Hang on, Sherlock, was that why you rang me?”

“No.”

“Sherlock…” He headed back into the front room and was surprised to find Sherlock looking genuinely perturbed.

“I find myself missing you, John. More acutely than I’d expected given that I have already come all the way back.”

“I feel the same way.” John made his way over to the sofa, sweeping some old copies of Guns & Ammo onto the floor to take a seat, “Now how about you tell me why you rang me?”

Sherlock ducked his head, then said in a rush, “I caught him brushing up on his Arabic on Friday, but there was something funny about the accent. I couldn’t quite place it, and I’m reasonably familiar with the more common dialects in the middle east. Why that region? He had a secondary time zone on his mobile: from a quick glance it was 3 or 4 hours ahead, and so did his PA - they were coordinating around that time zone. He had new shoes, dressy, but more...” Sherlock hovered over the distasteful word, “ _practical_ than he would normally wear in public. Clearly, he was breaking them in; and doing so in too much of a hurry to wear them solely at home.” He stopped and looked at John, expectantly.

“That’s… it?” John was dubious. “Mycroft got comfortable shoes and you think he’s gone somewhere…” In the background the news loop started again and the screen caught John’s eye, _Breaking: British casualties in Sana’a_. Oh. John looked at Sherlock more carefully and asked, “Did he go to Yemen?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you think he did?”

Sherlock snapped his laptop shut. “With Mycroft, anything is possible.” Stretching, then with a flapping of dressing gown, he stood. “Come on, John, we have to go interview the horrid sister-in-law.”

So far as John was concerned, that could mean just about anyone. “Who?”

Already striding towards the bedroom to dress, Sherlock loudly explained, “Max Willard’s sister-in-law. She’s jealous about the azaleas and may have killed the cat by accident. Come along… and bring my toothpicks and a lighter.”

The case had absorbed them for the rest of the day, culminating in a chase through a garden centre and a scale model of flaming toothpicks. The poor cat hadn’t stood a chance. With several hundred pounds worth of reward money in their pockets they’d stopped for a takeaway, but Sherlock hadn’t been in a talkative mood. John had caught him furtively trying his mobile after dinner, presumably calling his brother.

John wrote up the case for his blog while Sherlock tapped away at his own laptop. A few furtive checks of his own on the news sites hadn’t brought up any more news on Yemen beyond the earlier footage and an indistinct reference to casualties. For the first night since Sherlock’s return there was nothing: No kisses. No cuddling. Sherlock stripped quickly, efficiently, then crawled under the duvet and closed his eyes with his back to John.


	2. The Second Day

The second day Sherlock sat in his chair and chain-smoked. Continuously. John was pretty sure he caught him lighting the next cigarette from the stub of the one before it. 

John made cups of tea and tried not to say anything that could be misconstrued as a platitude. It wasn't easy. When the news cycle rolled around for the fourth time that morning he forced open the window behind Sherlock and made sure all the other doors in the flat were well shut.

He’d managed to tempt Sherlock in the morning with a piece of honeyed toast; dropping it off with a kiss to the top of Sherlock's head that the other man hadn't reciprocated.

It was almost four in the afternoon when Sherlock roused himself from his mind palace and said, “Do you sometimes just know something, John, with an absence of data, but, nevertheless you know it?”

“You mean like intuition? Yes, of course.”

“Then I know Mycroft went to Yemen, but I can't even prove it to you.” He took a drag of the cigarette and flicked ash over the carpet. “Intolerable.”

“Hey!” John snatched up the dish Sherlock had been using as an ashtray and stuck it on the arm of the chair. “Not on the floor, Sherlock.” John looked down and sighed at the little constellations of ashes mingling into the rug. Mrs Hudson was going to have something to say.

John settled into his chair and tried to keep the conversation going. “Does Mycroft go abroad often?”

“No.” Sherlock at least stubbed out the current cigarette in an ashtray rather than lighting a new one. “He’s too valuable and anyway…” He sunk more deeply in his chair and seemed to look around the flat, as if taking in the late hour for the first time, “My brother is not a big fan of legwork.”

“Guess it doesn’t go well with three piece suites and large umbrellas.”

“Not generally, no. Blending in is not a habit of his. Unless it’s with the Diogenes crowd.”

It was almost dark; the sun setting early at the start of December. John tried to think of something useful to offer. Food would be rejected; and for once John didn’t feel like pushing. Sherlock probably felt ill after the sheer number of cigarettes he’d smoked. “Is there someone you can call? That assistant of his?

“Anthea? No, the usual office line is ringing out.”

So they sat in their chairs: Sherlock back in his mind palace and John reading a book. The five o’clock news came on. They both pretended to not be watching. It was the same footage as the day before; the same vague references to British casualties.

John ordered takeaway, collected it, ate his portion and then packed away Sherlock’s in the fridge once it was thoroughly cold and completely untouched. He went to bed alone; Sherlock sat in his chair in the darkened front room - the spot of light from his cigarette the only sign of life.


	3. The Third Day

“Wake-up, John.”

John blinked blearily awake to find it was morning and the other side of the bed appeared untouched. He rolled over to find Sherlock standing at the foot of the bed, scrutinizing him. He scrutinized right back and found clear signs that Sherlock hadn't slept at all the night before.

“Wake-up, John!” Sherlock repeated, with emphasis on the ‘p’.

“I'm awake, I'm awake.” It was clearly still early as the room was dark, but just how early was hard to tell in December. John rolled out of the bed and Sherlock wasted no time in shoving jeans, pants and a jumper into his arms.

“Get dressed, we have to go out.”

“Out?” This was an unwelcome start to the day, “Can't I have some breakfast first?”

“You can have breakfast where we’re going.” With that, Sherlock turned and strode out of the room, leaving John to quickly dress against the chill of the morning.

In the end John barely managed to clean his teeth before Sherlock, in a swirl of Belstaff, dragged him down the stairs and into a cab. Giving the driver an address in NW3, the detective proceeded to lean his head back and close his eyes. John looked out the window as they drove along the west side of Regent’s Park, cut towards Primrose Hill and then north into a posh neighbourhood he’d never had cause to visit.

The cab pulled up in front of a high white wall and Sherlock paid the driver. The sun had come up properly during the short drive and it glistened in the frost. There was a reinforced black metal door sunk into the wall, and a large, solid gate across the driveway. No sign of the police so not a crime scene. A client?

Sherlock considered the panel next to the door, then pressed a long string of digits. With a soft click the locks disengaged and the door opened inwards. “Come along, John.”

John looked up and down the quiet street, then dubiously followed Sherlock onto the property. The door swung shut behind him and there was a click as the locks re-engaged. Sherlock was already halfway to the front porch of an imposing stone house, briskly crossing the flagstone yard and ignoring the small, well pruned garden.

Wait a second, thought John, as he watched Sherlock pull a key out of his pocket and unlock the front door in a more traditional fashion. “Hang on, this is _Mycroft’s_ house?”

“A brilliant deduction as always, John.”

Jesus. They were going to get arrested, if they weren’t shot on sight.

“Sherlock!”

The detective paused in the doorway and turned, one eyebrow raised impatiently.

“We can’t break into Mycroft’s house.”

Sherlock tilted his head to one side and said, “We’re not breaking in.” He brandished the key, and then pocketed it. “Now come on.”

John wouldn’t say he’d spared time to ponder the home life of Mycroft Holmes, but if he had, this is what we would have come up with. The postcode, and the resulting inferral around property prices, shook him a little, although he supposed it shouldn’t have been a surprise given Mycroft’s suits.

Sherlock led the way through a dark entryway, all old wood and polished mirrors, and into a front room. The traces left by a vacuum cleaner were still evident on the thick rug so Sherlock quickly discounted the room - there was no sign Mycroft had been entertaining, but John couldn’t picture him doing that regularly in any case.

Dodging an honest to God suit of armour led to a bright room kitted out with gym equipment, overlooking a more expansive back yard than John had known existed in central London. Sherlock only spent a moment in that room as well; evidently it didn’t offer any clues as to Mycroft’s whereabouts. A study, a guest bedroom, a dining room, all very traditional, expensive, and empty of signs of life.

Finally, they made their way into a kitchen. Sherlock opened the fridge and pulled out a pint of milk that he sniffed. “Still good. He wasn’t expecting to be away long so he kept the milk. Nothing else readily perishable.” Sherlock shut the fridge, but kept the milk, moving over to the counter and selecting a mug from the cupboard.

“What are you doing?”

Sherlock frowned in equal confusion, “I was under the impression that you wanted breakfast?”

“You’re using… Hang on, I am not eating Mycroft’s food.”

“Why not? He’s not using it. I’ll even join you.” Sherlock pulled down a second mug and unerringly located the tea bags. He filled the kettle, and while waiting for it to boil checked the date on a package of crumpets. “Not his usual stuff - he prefers fresh from the bakery, but can be counted to have some emergency rations around. These will do.”

Deeply uncomfortable, but not willing to waste the novelty of Sherlock waiting on him for a change, John sat down at the surprisingly modern kitchen table. In fact, the whole kitchen looked very modern, and the tidy display of cookbooks in the corner actually looked well used.

He occupied himself with looking around the kitchen, suddenly realising the privileged insight into Mycroft that was surrounding him.

Sherlock joined him at the table, bearing two steaming mugs of tea and a plate of hot crumpets and what looked like raspberry jam. John took a bite of crumpet and gathered that he’d betrayed himself with a widening of his eyes when Sherlock chuckled and said, “It comes over from Paris.”

John took another bite, speaking around it as he said, “Well then it’s a good thing it’s the best jam I’ve ever tasted.”

Sherlock took a bite and made an appreciative noise in the back of his throat, chewing and swallowing before he said, “He used to feed it to me when he felt I was in need of fattening up. This and honey.”

John filed that fact away for later consideration. He didn’t know much at all about the brothers’ past interactions with each other, but surmised Mycroft had done no small amount of looking out for his younger brother. And not just looking out, but _looking after_ , as well, it seemed.

They ate the crumpets and finished the tea in silence, Sherlock appeared to be thinking and John didn’t want to disturb him. They had dripped jam on the table. John blotted at it with his thumb, ineffectively, before he gathered up the dishes and washed them in the sink. Sherlock continued to think, only rousing himself when the cupboard door closed.

Sherlock’s long fingers were splayed across the tabletop as if he could divine his brother’s movements from the furniture. “I can’t tell anything so far. Mycroft keeps his house too clean.” He looked vaguely disgusted at the thought. “We’ll have to look upstairs.”

Upstairs was an elaborate wooden staircase and a long hallway with carpet so deep John’s footfalls didn’t make a sound. Sherlock led them past several closed doors and opened one at the end. It was Mycroft’s bedroom, and it somehow felt different than the rest of the house. John stood in the doorway and tried to work out why.

There was the same wood panelling as in every room save the kitchen. It smelled faintly of expensive soap and Mycroft’s cologne. It was tidy, to be sure, but the more closely John looked the more he realised there were personal touches tucked around the room. Sherlock hadn’t turned the lights on, but the winter sunlight was enough to make out a series of framed photographs on the dresser. John walked over and was delighted to find a photo of the two brothers, stiffly formal, but remarkable nonetheless given its age. It was a black and white portrait: Mycroft was in a suit and looked about sixteen. The older brother was smiling at the camera, a real smile, as he rested a hand on his younger brother’s shoulder. Sherlock wasn’t smiling, but he looked relaxed in a suit that was a miniature of Mycroft’s.

“Our cousin’s wedding.”

“Huh?” John hadn’t realised Sherlock had come up behind him. 

Sherlock indicated the photo. “Our cousin’s wedding. Mycroft picked those outfits. At least I think he did… I may have deleted it.” Sherlock wandered off, but John stayed with the photos. The second was a framed photo of a cottage somewhere in England. The third looked like it could be their parents: the age of the couple was right. The fourth was a matriculation photo in miniature, Mycroft lost amongst a sea of small faces in identical suits and gowns. And behind it… John reached out and gently lifted the loose photograph that had been tucked behind the other four. It was curled with age, slightly faded, and just about took John’s breath away. 

It was Sherlock. A young Sherlock: nine or ten at most, arms thrown around an Irish Setter and beaming at the camera. John drank in the details: the riot of curls; the slightly pudgy cheeks; grass stained knees; in the background, what looked like the same cottage as in the other photograph.

“John!”

He quickly tucked the photograph back in place and turned to find Sherlock standing by the bed, staring accusingly at something in the nightstand. Even across the room, John recognised it immediately: brown leather, small, cut to fit the inner pocket of a well tailored jacket. Four years ago, on the day they met, Mycroft had pulled it out and read aloud highly confidential information about John himself.

Mycroft’s notebook.

Sherlock was regarding the thing like it could bite so John went over and picked it up. It was only about two thirds full, but looked like it had been kept for a long time. There was something tucked in between two pages about a third of the way through - a dirty, torn list sellotaped in place. The handwriting was scrawled, but there was an obvious trace of Sherlock in certain letters. It was a list of drugs. Dangerous drugs… and too many of them. John frowned and looked up, but Sherlock didn’t offer any comment and kept his face carefully impassive. 

Flipping forward, John found the page with his own therapist’s notes. _Trust issues_ was underlined. A wave of emotion washed over him at the memory of that meeting, and the remembered sight of Moriarty’s cabbie and Sherlock through a window.

John let the pages turn too quickly to read the words. One page was covered in strings of numbers, another a list of latitudes and longitudes, others jumbles of little notes and numbers. One page was blank but for the words in the middle of the page: _I dearly loved the little boy who grew into the man_. Then, in a different pen scribbled across the bottom, _Even if I thought he was an idiot._ There was a folded piece of paper tucked inside a pocket in the back cover. John eased it out and unfolded it to find a child’s drawing. A very young child’s drawing, by the looks of it. A boxy house and two spindly figures drawn with great attention to detail: fingers, buttons down the front of the taller torso, scribbled shocks of hair and large lopsided smiles. There was a very slanted _M_ over the taller figure and a shaky _S_ beside the smaller. At the bottom in an adult hand were the words, _Sherlock, Aged 4_.

It was a happy drawing; decades old, yet tucked into the inner pocket of Mycroft’s suit jacket on a daily basis. Mycroft’s own words echoed in John’s ears, _”What might we deduce about his heart?”_

John met Sherlock’s eyes and found the detective looked brittle. The winter sunshine made him even paler than normal and caught the flecks of colour in his wide eyes. This was not good, John realised. More than a bit not good.

Sherlock swallowed convulsively and said, “If he was on regular business, he’d have taken this with him.” Swallowing again and then gathering himself, Sherlock turned and strode towards the door, calling back over his shoulder, “Bring it.”

The drawing was folded back up and tucked away. Feeling life the worst sort of thief, John tucked the notebook into his own coat pocket and followed Sherlock out of the bedroom and back to Baker Street


	4. The Fourth Day

The fourth day was very much like the second. Sherlock attempted to give himself a case of lung cancer in one go, eventually smoking so much John caught him retching in the bathroom.

Mycroft’s notebook sat accusingly on the mantle next to Billy the skull, a reminder of their trespassing the day before that John could have done without. The bombing was getting the same minor coverage on the news cycle, with no updates to the story. 

Sherlock hadn’t eaten all day and John resolved that after the six o’clock news cycle he was going to force feed him something. Pasta, maybe. That was quick and inoffensive enough, no matter what the cigarettes had done to his appetite.

They both feigned disinterest when the news began, but turned abruptly when a new piece of footage with an Al Jazeera watermark appeared. Shaky footage, with a blurring at the edges to indicate it had been taken on a mobile. The same burning building as before: the three lowest floors at the front destroyed by a car bomb, the shell billowing smoke. The individual taking the footage jockeyed within the crowd, pushing forward to where survivors and bodies were being dragged into the street. There was a woman being lifted by many hands: youngish, brown hair, pale, dressed in a dark suit.

Out of the corner of his eye John caught the moment Sherlock stilled entirely, then found himself doing the same. It was Anthea. Her limbs jogged limply as they lifted her and there was a red stripe of blood from her mouth that carried on down the front of her shirt. The camera was too unsteady to be sure, but she looked dead. 

Sherlock didn’t make a sound, just curled in on himself further and tucked his best dressing gown around his knees tightly.

John forced himself to search the background of the footage, desperately, but the clip cut off and the newscaster said a few sombre words about British casualties being confirmed and some nationals still missing before it flipped to the next story.

Despite himself, John went to the mantle and picked up Mycroft’s notebook, pulling out the drawing tucked into the back cover. The two smiling figures, the very slanted _M_ and shaky _S_ looked back at him. So much depended on those stick figures being reunited.

Sherlock hadn't moved; hadn’t even steepled his fingers under his chin to indicate he was thinking. John tucked the drawing away and returned the notebook to its place, then carefully stubbed out the cigarette the other man had abandoned still smouldering on a makeshift ashtray. “Hey…” John crouched in front of the chair and ran a hand over Sherlock’s knee. “You in there?”

Blinking, Sherlock seemed to rouse himself from his own thoughts. “It was Anthea.” He looked at John as if hoping it could be denied. “Wasn’t it?”

“It was.” John’s voice didn’t sound like his own. He cleared his throat, but it didn’t seem to make a difference. “Do you know who we can call? For more information?”

Sherlock shrugged, clarified, “Don’t call us: we’ll call you,” in a sardonic tone.

“Could it be a coincidence? Could she have been doing something else, or...”

Sherlock looked at him properly then, and there was something in his tone of voice that made John think he was quoting his brother as he said, “The universe is rarely so lazy.” Then he reached past John, selected another cigarette and proceeded to blow smoke rings at the television until John gave up on dinner altogether.


	5. The Fifth Day

The bed smelled like an ashtray and John was muzzily aware that there was something pinning him in place. He woke slowly to find an absolutely reeking consulting detective sprawled over his chest, riotous curls tucked under his chin and one leg entwined with his own. He ran a hand down the other man’s flank and encountered the same dressing gown Sherlock had been wearing the day before during his all-day smoking marathon. For the last four days John had been fighting against the sinking feeling that this might be something he wouldn’t be able to fix. The curls under his chin had a faint sweatiness about them, but he tipped his head and pressed his nose into them regardless. Aside from that first week after he returned half frozen and wounded, it was rare for Sherlock to sleep later than John. He was a comforting weight, even under the circumstances. Perhaps _especially_ under the circumstances, John amended.

The sun was just peeking around the edges of Sherlock’s curtains, which meant it was at least past eight in the morning. John was still getting used to Sherlock’s bedroom - quieter at the back of the flat, but with its own unique noises to learn. There was a gurgle in the pipes that indicated Mrs Hudson was up. She’d stopped in the night before and been apprised of the situation. John suspect she was going to default to her usual supportive behaviour of making sure they were at least well fed. The body in his arms was still leaner than it should be - a condition that was only bound to worsen.

Sherlock’s breathing changed from deep and slow to more shallow and John ran a gentle hand up and down the man’s arm to ease the transition to wakefulness. 

Finally, Sherlock shifted, slipping his head from under John’s chin and regarding the doctor with red rimmed eyes. There was no ‘good morning’, just, “I want to see the footage.”

“The footage…”

"The Al Jazeera footage. And anything else they have.” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse, with a raw quality to it. It sounded like his throat hurt.

“That could to be hard to get, Sherlock.”

Sherlock just gave him a skeptical look and rolled out of the bed, trailing his dressing gown behind him as he headed for the front room. By the time John was up, dressed, and in the kitchen to make tea Sherlock had already convinced a junior editor at the Daily Mail to send him the highest quality version they had access to.

John set a mug of tea at Sherlock's elbow and watched from his own chair as it slowly grew cold, untouched. The footage looped over and over, until John was sick of the tinny screaming and sirens. The full clip was four minutes long, starting from some distance away and running towards the blast site. Anthea, or the woman who looked like Anthea, was the only victim that could be seen clearly.

After ten loops Sherlock stirred enough to take a sip of his cold tea, grimaced, then rasped, “The fire started inside.”

“Sorry?” John moved to look over Sherlock's shoulder at the screen.

“The fire started inside the building. Shortly, but not immediately, after the bomb blast.”

John shrugged, “There could have been a gas line or a generator… Just about anything, really.”

“Or it could have been started afterwards.”

“Yes, it could have, but it doesn't mean…”

“Possibilities.” Sherlock reached for his cigarettes and frowned when he found the package empty. “Let’s play ‘possibilities’ first, John, before we drown them in probability.”

A car door slammed in the street below and a few seconds later the doorbell rang. Sherlock paused the looping footage even before there were footfalls on the stairs and pushed his chair back from the desk. Mrs. Hudson let in two men in dark suits, excusing herself from the conversation without saying a word. Like them, she knew what this was without being told. 

“Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes?” The younger suit had clearly drawn the short straw of having to speak. Without waiting for them to reply in the affirmative, he continued, “We regret to inform you that Mr. Mycroft Holmes is missing and presumed killed in the terrorist attack in Yemen. You are the only individuals who have been informed at this time.” Remembering himself, he reached stiffly into his jacket pocket and withdrew an envelope which he thrust into John’s hands. “This is for you, Dr. Watson.”

The older suit nodded once to each of them. “We will release further information if and when it becomes available. We are deeply sorry for your loss.”

“I thought you said he was only missing and _presumed_ dead?” Sherlock snarled the correction, but the older suit didn’t blink, merely nodded again and steered the younger man by the elbow towards the door and out of the flat.

John looked numbly down at the envelope in his hands, taking in the expensive paper and his name written in fountain pen. Sherlock slid his chair viciously back to the table, turned the volume on his laptop to maximum and set the footage running again.

The envelope was pristine, but it didn’t look brand new - there was a slight fading to the ink. It looked like it had been carefully stored, since even before the fall. Tearing it open with a finger, a single card slipped out. _John_ , it was the same handwriting as in the notebook on the mantle, _If you have received this I am presumed, but unconfirmed, dead. You and Sherlock are the only ones who have been notified at this time. If it does go on too long, please do have Sherlock inform my parents. So long as you are well, they will only be automatically notified in the event of my death being confirmed. If Sherlock is unable to undertake the task, please text 6174 to my previous mobile number and a visit not unlike what resulted in this card will be arranged for them. You will be informed when it has taken place._

_Please look after my brother._

_Mycroft Holmes_

John read the last line again: _Please look after my brother._

The screams and sirens blaring from the laptop were too much, but Sherlock’s entire posture radiated hostility. Impulsively, John snatched the notebook off the mantle and retreated to his old bedroom upstairs. Opening the door was like stepping back in time several weeks, back to when he thought Sherlock was dead. There was a loneliness that hung around the room, suffused in the objects. His cane, leaning against the doorframe; the frayed jumper he’d left unreplaced rather than take money from Mycroft for a new one; a pint glass he’d used for water when he’d had a bit too much to drink in the evening.

John sat down on the bed and opened the notebook, unfolding Sherlock’s childhood drawing of the brothers and laying it flat on the duvet. He flicked first to his own page, the underlined, _Trust issues_. There was the address of the bedsit he’d stayed in fresh out of the army, and Harry’s as well. Mike Stamford’s name. Afghanistan, with a dash to the date he’d been shot. It was all there, including a few further notes that must have been his therapist’s. The word “blog” followed by a question mark.

Flipping back to the first page there were some notes that could only make sense to Mycroft. An address in Shoreditch; a few dates in the springtime, but without a year; a telephone number - UK mobile by the looks of it; several long series of numbers that were perhaps a code. Flipping forwards a few pages he found Sherlock’s name with a landline number next to it. “Victor” and “Trevor,” or perhaps it was one name: “Victor Trevor” was vaguely plausible as one name. No way to look it up with his laptop downstairs.

The list of drugs made him pause. It was clearly Sherlock’s handwriting, and the paper was torn and dirty. Possible scenarios where Sherlock provided his brother with such a list were not pleasant to contemplate. John ran a finger reverently over the list, know it could only represent a moment of deep concern from the elder brother. A moment he wanted a lasting memory of.

A number of pages appeared to be entirely in code, while others looked like they were simply not in English. Sherlock could probably figure it out, but not John. The latitudes and longitudes he could only vaguely guess at without access to the internet. There was a page with _REDBEARD_ written in a box in the top. Mycroft’s voice echoed in John’s ears: "But initially, he wanted to be a pirate." The name Vernet sounded familiar, but no more than that, another one for Wikipedia.

On one page there was a sketch he hadn’t noticed before. Executed in pen, and not badly in John’s opinion. It reminded him strongly of the photo of the cottage in Mycroft’s bedroom and as such presumably was the same place. He’d have to ask Sherlock where it was. The sound of the looping video was still audible, even a floor above. Later, he told himself, he’d speak to Sherlock later.

There were traces of their cases in the notebook as well. John had started to come across the letters spelling _H. O. U. N. D._ Still unable to suppress a little thrill of horror at that word, even years later. A tiny sketch of a riding crop - whether intended to be Sherlock’s or Irene Adler’s John couldn’t tell. The word _bins_ on the same page, perhaps a reference to the CIA man’s repeated fall.

John refolded the drawing and tucked it away, closing the notebook as he did so. There was a second of silence from downstairs, then the video began to loop again. Later, he promised again. He’d speak to Sherlock later.


	6. The Tenth Day

It didn’t get any better. Despite Mrs. Hudson’s good cooking, Sherlock had barely eaten in days. Barely showered. Not bothered with clothing beyond alternating between his best and second best dressing gown.

At night, when John would wake to find that Sherlock had given in to sleep long after him and slunk into the bed, he’d hold the other man close. During the day he’d make sweet cups of tea and deposit them by Sherlock’s elbow; plates of toast and honey. Mostly, the tea cooled until he threw it into the sink and the toast went uneaten.

Sherlock could be found in one of three places: in the bedroom; lying on his back on their sofa, deep in his mind palace; or rewatching the same four minute clip of the immediate aftermath of the bombing, at least on mute after John had finally protested.

And he wasn’t talking. That was the most worrying point to John. Despite his claim to regularly not speak for days: when not in his mind palace, at the microscope, or playing the violin Sherlock was always talking. Deducing. Hell, he used to talk to John even when the other man had left the flat. But now, Sherlock was occupying the flat like a ghost, and John didn’t know what to do to change that. At least he had run out of cigarettes.

Sherlock was in his usual morning position: flat on his back on the sofa, fingers steepled and feet on the arm rest where he was too tall to fit. A cup of tea and plate of toast were untouched on the coffee table. It was almost eleven in the morning and John was bored out of his mind as he sipped a cup of tea. Sherlock had denied all clients and told Greg in no uncertain terms to piss off. 

There had been no word from the intelligence services, no more footage, even the news coverage of the bombing had wound down entirely. Sherlock was clearly deep in his mind palace, but what he could be doing with no new data, John couldn’t say.

There was a tentative tread on the stairs and a soft, “Hoo, hoo!” before the door opened to admit Mrs Hudson and a young man: student’s haircut, early twenties, new suit… a recent graduate, by the looks of it, less than a year into his first real position.

Sherlock didn’t stir, but John hurried to intercept them at the door anyway. “Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, we’re still not taking any clients.”

Nervousness belied by her wringing hands, their landlady continued to usher the young man into the flat. “I think you’ll want to hear this one out, John. His name is Adam Cowler...”

“Wrong!” Sherlock bellowed from the couch without opening his eyes. “Out!”

John shrugged helplessly and started trying to herd them back towards the door. In desperation, the young man seemed to gather his courage and blurted out, “Mr. Holmes wore a wedding ring on his right hand.”

Sherlock sat up, abruptly, brow drawing into a scowl like a gathering storm. In a low, deceptively even voice he said, “What did you say?”

John froze in place and the young man licked his lips and repeated, nervously, “Mr. Holmes wore a wedding ring on his right hand.”

Sherlock stabbed one finger at the door and barked, “Leave, Mrs. Hudson!” Then turned to fully face the young man, eyes flickering up and down as he deduced before speaking, “Graduate fast-track scheme, started five months ago, mother bought your suit when you got the position. Oxfor- no, Cambridge. Mathematics. Senior Wrangler. And you’ve just done something very out of character.”

The student nodded, nervousness having given way to downright terror, and held out his hand, opening his fingers as he said, “I’ve stolen a ring.”

The ring was gold and it gleamed dully on Adam Cowler’s open palm. Sherlock looked frozen, so John moved instead, plucking up the ring and examining it more closely. There was a large rent in the gold, as if it had been stuck by a terrible blow. He could just make out something inside, tipping it to catch the light, he read aloud, “Dieu et mon droit.”

Sherlock made a small noise that almost sounded pained and Adam flinched.

John put a hand comfortingly on the young man’s shoulder and steered him towards his own chair. “Sit down, son. I’ll make some tea and then you can tell us how you got that ring. Alright?”

Adam Cowler’s story started just as Sherlock had deduced. A brilliant undergraduate career in mathematics, a tap on the shoulder for queen and country in his final year and starting out in the world of cloaks and daggers in the summertime. He’d met Mycroft during his first rotation - the elder Holmes had thrown a few analyses his way and been impressed by the results. Started using him more often and introducing him to the right people. _Mentoring_ him, even. He’d been doing a piece of work for Mycroft’s own office when the Yemen situation unfolded. Mycroft had been expected back on the Thursday and simply never reappeared. Neither had Anthea. Eventually, Adam had put two and two together.

He’d have carried on to a new placement none the wiser, except for an overheard conversation early that morning. Someone had brought in Anthea’s things, cleared by security, for return to her family. Adam looked up, nervously, “There was a little pile on the desk: her diamond earrings, that bracelet she wears, a necklace, a woman’s ring, and this one. It didn’t make sense, her having that ring. Then I remembered that Mr. Holmes wore a ring.”

Sherlock flinched at the past tense, but John ignored it and asked, “So you nicked it?”

“They’re taking everything to her mother’s this evening… I could have got it back in time if I was wrong.” Adam looked between the two men. “But I’m not wrong, am i?”

“It was our grandfather’s ring.” Sherlock turned it over in fingers that felt dangerously clumsy, “It was the one scrap of sentiment he permitted himself.” John didn’t point out that there was more than a scrap of sentiment in the notebook on the mantle. “You need to get me her full autopsy report, including photos.”

“Mr. Holmes, I don't think…”

“I know your people have photographs. Bring them to me.”

Biting his lip, Adam nodded.

The rest of the day passed intolerably slowly. Sherlock had examined the flaw in the ring, and whatever he deduced about the blow made him turn white and retreat into his mind palace for a full three hours.

John heated up soup for dinner and was heartened to see that Sherlock actually managed half a bowl before pushing the rest back across the table. It was eight o’clock when Sherlock’s mobile chimed with a text alert.

The message was merely two long strings of numbers, but it made sense to Sherlock as he immediately opened his laptop and connected to a government server that let him download the relevant files. They say on the sofa together, reading. It wasn't good. Anthea had been killed instantly by blow to the head, however, the autopsy report was clear that from the number of projectiles lodged throughout her body she was dead anyway. The photos were horrific, even for two well seasoned London consulting detectives.

They read the report twice, but it was consistent with someone caught in a terrible explosion. There was a note that some burns were received immediately after death, with an addendum that she had been pulled free of the rubble as flames engulfed the building and prevented further search for survivors. John felt Sherlock stiffen at that; the confirmation of what they had both suspected.

Sherlock scrolled back to the photos, scrutinising each in detail that John could only try to match. The detective kept coming back to a close up of her face and neck, finally reaching out and touching a finger to the screen as he said, “There.”

John frowned. “Her necklace?”

“Look at the pendant.”

John peered, zoomed in, and frowned. “That's the wrong side. Her necklace is on back to front.”

Sherlock nodded.

“So?”

“Remember her, John, the care in her appearance. Regularly wearing this necklace - she put it on every day with the same practiced motions. She's not going to be out in public with it on backwards.”

“So you think…” John wasn't sure where this was going.

“I think someone took off her necklace after she died, and replaced it backwards.”

“Maybe whoever did the autopsy…”

But Sherlock was already zooming in on the photo, right at the side of her neck. There was something there, strung through by the chain of her necklace and almost hidden underneath her body. Just a small arc of gold was visible, but the size was right to be Mycroft’s ring.

“What does it mean?”

“Everything…” Sherlock leaned towards the laptop screen so that his nose almost touched it, “And nothing.”


	7. The Blurring of Days

The Thirteenth Day

Forty-eight hours of waiting on continuous danger night level alertness was exhausting for John. By the time, grudgingly, the full scope of the investigation was revealed to them both were about ready to climb the wallpaper.

John was relieved to see that Adam didn’t seem to have suffered for bringing them the ring. It was probably equally that initiative is appreciated when proved correct, and that until confirmed dead Mycroft was still a figure to be feared across Whitehall and the intelligence services. Depressingly, there didn’t seem to be much more known than Sherlock had already been able to deduce:

_Anthea had been killed immediately in the blast._

_Her body had been pulled out of the ruined building just as it was engulfed by fire._

_There had been bodies in the building when it caught fire._

_Mycroft was presumed to have been with Anthea when the blast took place._

_No one could recall if Mycroft’s body had been seen in the building._

_No one could recall much of anything in the aftermath of the blast - from the few witnesses it had been chaos, with people running in every direction._

_Anthea’s necklace had been on backwards when the body was turned over to the British authorities, with Mycroft’s ring threaded on it._

_No one could recall her wearing his ring before. There was no evidence they had been in any sort of relationship beyond professional._

Sherlock had got his hands on more cigarettes. It had required a trip out, fully dressed, to the shops, which John supposed was an improvement. As a compromise on the general air quality in the flat, John had developed a rationing programme. It was too cold to open a window so, instead, there was a schedule of when Sherlock could light up pinned to the wall over the sofa.

Clients that turned up at the door were still being turned away. Lestrade had texted offering to bring a distraction and had turned up with five cold case files. They had sat untouched for two days, then when John woke up that morning he discovered that Sherlock had not come to bed at all and solved all five instead.

The ring sat on the mantle of top of Mycroft’s notebook. It kept the book in place, deterring John from picking it up again. Sherlock studiously ignored it, but John had caught him the day before turning the ring over and over in his hand, not quite slipping it onto his finger.

John looked over the top of his newspaper and contemplated the figure on the sofa. Sherlock was losing weight and had developed a cough from the relentless smoking. Lestrade was coming around at lunchtime - to collect Sherlock’s notes on the cases he’d solved and possibly drop off some more as well. John wasn’t sure what to advise on that front: a distraction was welcome, but Sherlock staying up all night was not ideal.

He turned a page and tried to lose himself in the news, at least for a little while.

 

The Twentieth Day

Almost three weeks. John had noticed an undercurrent in the news: an unexpectedly disappointing result to some long awaited negotiations, mentions of upset foreign diplomats, two minor scandals and something unspecified that caused ripples in the City. It was enough to make John wonder what amount of smoothing the world Mycroft did on a daily basis.

 

The Forty-Fifth Day

Sherlock was glued to his microscope, and had been for the last two days. He claimed it was for their current case (barely a four yet taken anyway), but John suspected it was some pet experiment. In any case, it rendered the entire kitchen table out of commission with petri dishes and blank slides. He was dressed: the immaculate suit just a little too loose, but otherwise clean and flattering. The cigarettes had been eased back as well. Not cold turkey, but only brought out late at night when John was ready for sleep and Sherlock wanted to stay up. John wasn’t sure what he thought about, smoking alone in the dark front room, but he’d hazard a guess it was his brother.

It was the sort of thing that passed for domesticity in 221B. It wouldn’t feel normal until John opened the fridge to find something unspeakable from the morgue. Or, perhaps, it would never feel normal again. Mycroft was unmentioned, his ring and notebook next to the skull on the mantle an ever-present memento mori. Sometimes, John was sure Sherlock was looking at Anthea’s autopsy photos or the footage from the blast site, but he didn’t mention it.


	8. Fifty-Three Days Ago

Mycroft Holmes came-to on the ground with a crippling pain in his head, smoke and dust in his lungs and a coppery taste of blood in his mouth. He coughed, retched. Oh, his head hurt, and his _hand_ hurt, and it seemed like something was wrong with his legs. Blinking, he realised that the hot stickiness underneath him was, in fact, blood. 

Anthea’s blood. Her eyes looked back at him, unseeing, body cut to ribbons in a way he had mostly avoided thanks to a cement pillar. There were voices in the background, and a scent of petrol. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t think, but somehow knew that was bad. Knew he had to act. Cradling his right hand against his chest, he considered. There was a scrabbling and footfalls coming closer, and the petrol smell getting stronger. Not much time, he told himself, think! 

He eased the ring off his ruined right hand, swearing when he had to use his fingers to open the clasp of Anthea’s necklace. He managed to thread his ring onto her necklace, adjust how it sat around her neck, and clumsily reapply the clasp.

Once done, he dropped his head back to the floor, sweating and dizzy from the pain and effort of it. The footsteps stopped next to him, but he couldn’t muster the energy to open his eyes.

A voice said something his brain only sluggishly translated. 

This was very bad.

Then there were hands grabbing him, picking him up, and as his head blossomed with spectacular pain he passed out again.


	9. The Sixty-First Day

John was washing up the plates after a breakfast of toast and poncy raspberry jam when a car door slammed outside. Footfalls on the stairs made Sherlock look up, sharply, dust the crumbs off his shirt and set his laptop aside.

It was the same two men who had delivered the news that Mycroft was missing. John dried his hands and hurried into the front room as one said, “Mycroft Holmes was found in Yemen two days ago. His condition is stable and he was returned to the UK last night.” The two men shared a look, no doubt not wanting to divulge intelligence information, but also under no illusion about who they were dealing with. “Three high value individuals were removed from the building between the blast and a large fire being started. Mr. Holmes was kept separately in a rural encampment in Yemen.”

Sherlock looked like he’d stopped breathing, so John asked, “Where is he? The hospital? Or at home?”

Another glance exchanged, and the younger one offered, “I believe an address was provided in Suffolk. A car can be provided if...”

“Please,” John interrupted, “Send the car around lunchtime and we’ll be ready to go.”

Summarily dismissed, the two civil servants, or whatever they were, left. John moved over to crouch in front of Sherlock’s chair. He put his hands on the other man’s knees and said, softly, “Hey.” Sherlock’s eyes were flicking back and forth, so John gave his knees a gentle squeeze. “Hey, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes slowed, then tracked to meet John’s gaze. “He’s alive.” 

“Yes.” Another squeeze to the knees under his hands.

“And he’s back in England.”

“Yes, do you know where we’re going in Suffolk?”

Sherlock swallowed convulsively, then nodded. “The cottage. John, I… I don’t know why he’d go there, and not London.”

John had an idea or two, but didn’t say anything. He wanted see what was waiting for them. “I know. It’s okay. How big is the cottage? Should we plan to pack a bag, just in case?” Sherlock looked askance at the idea, and then seemed to nod despite himself. “Okay,” the detective didn’t look capable of doing anything at the moment, so John continued, “I’ll sort that out. You just wait here, all right?”

He left Sherlock in the front room and hastily packed two bags, hoping his selection of clothes for the other man wouldn’t be met with derision. The drive was long, but better than dealing with other people on the train. Sherlock plastered himself to the far side of the back seat and looked out the window, his only concession for contact was one hand that gripped John’s tightly. They finally rolled through a small, picturesque village, then crunched to a stop in the gravel drive of a thatched cottage. Sherlock produced a key from his pocket and unlocked the front door. It was silent inside.

Just when John was about to call out, he looked into the front room and felt his voice catch in his throat.

Ginger. A deeply, incredibly ginger Mycroft Holmes. Sunburnt, with so many freckles on his face they were threatening to merge into a sort of suntan. And the beard: a fiery orange only matched by the curls sprouting from the top of his head.

“He uses product on it, normally,” Sherlock tilted his head to the side and continued to whisper, “And when it’s shorter it’s less noticeable.” 

Mycroft was in an armchair in front of the fire, a thick blanket over his lap and legs, head tilted back slightly and mouth open in sleep. His right forearm from fingertips to elbow was covered in a bulky bandage and his features were sharp, the fat pared away from his face, and presumably body as well.

“Should we wake him?” John whispered back, “I don’t want him to hear people in his house and panic, but he looks like he could use the sleep. Is there a pub nearby?”

Sherlock nodded, setting down his bag in the front hall where it was easily visible and tilting his head back towards the front door. It was only a five minute walk to the small local pub, a typical affair with lots of dark wood and a cheery girl behind the bar. John got them each a drink and ordered sausages and chips for a late lunch. They stayed until almost four o’clock, trying to give Mycroft the most chance to rest while also hoping he’d wake up on his own while they were out. Sherlock distracted them by deducing everyone in the pub, then as much of the broader village as could be seen from the windows. Finally, impatient to get back, they settled the tab and walked to the cottage.

A light was on in the front room and sure enough Mycroft was awake when they returned. He even smiled at them as they crossed the threshold and in a slightly hoarse voice said, “Sherlock, John.” 

Sherlock went straight over to his brother and Mycroft seemed to understand what was needed: He extended his left hand and didn’t speak as Sherlock gripped it tightly for a moment. Releasing his brother’s hand, Sherlock settled into the chair on the other side of the fire and waved for John to join them.

“It’s good to see you, Mycroft.” John gave the man an awkwardly left-handed handshake, then settled into the third chair. “How are you? They didn’t give us any details.”

Mycroft looked like the was considering what to share for a second, then came to a decision and said, “I wasn’t mistreated afterwards, but there was no proper medical treatment. They had an encampment: I was typically tied up outdoors where it’s mild enough during the day. I couldn’t get away on foot in any case. The rest is in there,” He waved a hand at a folder on the table, a medical record by the look of it, which John took as an invitation.

Sherlock was sitting on the very edge of his chair, leaning forward as if gravitationally attracted to his brother. His eyes flitted over the other man’s face, drinking in the data he saw there. “Why did they take you?”

Mycroft smiled, wryly, “I don’t believe they knew what they had. The bomb wasn’t directly to do with my visit. They certainly intended to sweep the building for hostages, but I suspect I was only picked up as an obvious foreigner and potentially useful. They never knew my name.”

John’s eyes scanned down the typewritten page in front of him:

_Surgery on broken hand and wrist to re-set bones and insert three pins._ John recognised the name of the surgeon as a star of private practice and NHS orthopaedics in London.

_Damage to ligaments and cartilage in knee - fitted with brace - reassess in three months._

_Fracture of the ankle, aggravated by walking, set with boot._

_Scarring across legs and torso - flying debris with potential for foreign bodies still in place. Signs of previous infection._

_Malnutrition and dehydration._

_Suspected serious head injury._

He looked up at Mycroft, sharply, _Suspected serious head injury._

Mycroft, being Mycroft, caught the motion immediately. With a flicker of his eyes to his brother he headed-off John and indicated his right arm. “I suspect my days of piano playing are over, but I’m hoping to be able to write again in not too long.”

Sherlock snorted. “No great loss then… I was better than you anyway.” And, somehow, that was just the right thing to say. A huff of laughter escaped Mycroft, and Sherlock was unable to keep a real smile off his face.

“Well I see you’ve rather fallen off the wagon where cigarettes are concerned, brother dear. Nice to know you felt the urge to follow me to an early grave.”

“Hardly.” Sherlock tossed his head and scoffed, “You just got yourself kidnapped with so little data to go on I had to resort to something to amp up the brainpower. Would you have preferred I used something else?”

“Do you know how they found me?” Mycroft gave a wry smile and elaborated, “Goats.”

John barked out a laugh and looked between the brothers. “Seriously, Mycroft? Goats?”

“I woke up to one licking my face: I suppose I must have been rather salty by that point. I managed to tear off a strip off my shirt, wrote S.O.S. on it with mud, and tied it around the beast’s neck. It took a couple of days: the child tending the goats didn’t know what it meant, but eventually someone came looking.” Something softened in Mycroft’s pinched face and he fixed his brother with an even gaze. “Thank you for your efforts, Sherlock, I have no doubt you did everything you could.”

Unwilling to confirm or deny, and disappointed that he hadn’t been able to make a real difference, Sherlock said, “You’ll be in London soon enough, safe from marauding farm animals.”

“Hmmm.”

Sherlock didn’t catch it, but John did. That flash of something in Mycroft’s eyes and non-committal response to the suggestion of returning to London. _He’s not planning to come back_. The realization hit John so hard he only barely managed to keep his behaviour unremarkable.

Beside him, the brothers continued to trade friendly barbs as the sun set, neither noticing John’s silence. For his part, John focused his attention on Mycroft and forced himself to _observe_.

Mycroft was not intending to return to London. John was as sure of it as Sherlock was oblivious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A photo of Mycroft](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/1d/68/61/1d68611d2c6f0ced1283d1178e315ebb.jpg)


	10. The Sixty-Second Day

The evening before had wrapped up early when a nurse arrived to check on Mycroft, prepare food and make sure he took his pain medication. With John’s help, Mycroft had hobbled his way to a makeshift bed in the ground floor study and was asleep before six o’clock.

Now, the next morning, there were deep, even breaths ruffling the hair on the back of John’s neck. He shifted, pressing himself more firmly against the long, warm body behind. The guest bedroom was small, but comfortable; the bed itself a deep cocoon of high threadcount cotton. They had stayed up late the night before, drinking scotch liberated from the cupboard long after Mycroft had gone to sleep. Given his poor sleeping and eating habits over the past months Sherlock was bound to sleep late, but John was wide awake.

A soft clatter downstairs indicated the nurse had come to make breakfast. John rolled over and pressed his nose into Sherlock’s curls, listening. Footsteps in the front room, halting - Mycroft was up and settling in his chair. Noises from the kitchen moved into the front room - breakfast was served. Near silence, presumably while the meal was eaten, then a brief clatter in the kitchen followed by the front door closing with a thud.

It was time. John carefully wriggled his way out of Sherlock’s embrace. The sleeping man stirred slightly, then settled again once alone in the bed. John collected his overnight bag and carried it downstairs as quietly as possible.

Mycroft was indeed in the front room, a tea tray set up in a folding table beside his chair. He looked unsurprised, as if he was expecting to see John. There was even one spare cup on the tray.

“Morning, Mycroft.” John helped himself to tea without waiting for an invitation and settled into the chair across from the other man. “Did you sleep all right?”

“Fine, thank you.” Mycroft was all calm indifference, but John had the sense he was being watched very closely.

Coming to a decision, he reached into his bag and pulled out Mycroft’s notebook, setting it on the table between them without comment.

Mycroft indicated the notebook, and in a weary tone, said, “So there is my soul, laid bare, Dr. Watson.”

“Don't worry,” John smiled self-deprecatingly, “I was never going to be able to crack your codes.”

Mycroft gave an actual smile at the thought, then sombered and said, “I'm afraid there’s rather a lot uncoded as well.”

“Just a man who cares deeply for his younger brother.” John let the approval show on his face. “With good reason.”

“I see we have an understanding then?”

“Yes.” John couldn't hold back a broader smile at the thought of having woken-up entwined with Sherlock Holmes. “Yes, we do.”

“Good.” Mycroft shifted in his chair, resettling his bandaged arm and looking towards the window as if he considered the conversation over.

John regarded him for a while, then said, “You’re as bad as your brother: being all mysterious with his cheekbones and turning his coat collar up to look cool.”

Whatever Mycroft had expected, it was not that. “Excuse me?”

“What are you so afraid of, Mycroft?”

“I…” Mycroft swallowed, uncomfortable, unused to being on the defensive. “I don’t know what you mean.”

John handed him the plastic bottle of water that had been discarded in his bag. “Deduce it.”

The temperature may as well have dropped in the room, given how stiffly Mycroft was sitting. Between them, the bottle caught a ray of winter sunlight from the window, tantalisingly, and Mycroft was undone like the Holmes he was: “Bulk purchase, consumed yesterday, by you in fact, small scuff marks halfway up, very regular: it’s been sitting somewhere that moves against it. A car cupholder or door panel - you don’t own a car. Not anything from NSY - wrong interior. Must be from the car that drove you here yesterday. I don’t see the point of this exercise, John.”

Ignoring the last comment, John took off his watch and passed it over. Mycroft held it clumsily in his left hand, turning it slightly to better catch the light. Despite himself, he said, “Swiss made, expensive. You’ve had it for over a decade. It’s been to Afghanistan with you. It was your father’s; at the time of purchase he could afford it, but by the time it passed into your possession the family fortunes were rather different…” He trailed off and John nodded, confirming the accuracy of Mycroft’s deductions.

Steeling his nerves, John met Mycroft’s eyes and said, “Sherlock.”

Mycroft sucked in a breath, surprised. 

John nodded. “Tell me about Sherlock.”

The silence stretched. Just when John was started to doubt the approach he’d taken, Mycroft said, “He’s lost eight pounds. Recently eased up on the cigarettes, although he was smoking continuously for a long time. He’s solved eight cold cases since I was gone, and two from the website. He was refusing all clients until recently. The two clients were barely fours: he took them half as a distractions and half to make you feel better. You packed his bag because he wasn’t up to the task. He was refusing to eat. Not sleeping. He didn’t last 48 hours before taking you to break into my flat in search of clues. He probably even made you eat breakfast there. You’ve since developed a taste for my jam.”

“Still think you’re not coming back?”

“How did you…” Mycroft looked stunned, “You have been spending entire too much time with my brother, Dr. Watson.” John didn’t reply, just waited. And waited. Eventually, Mycroft admitted, “I’d rather decided not to, although I don’t know how you came to that realisation.” Another silence, Mycroft refreshed his tea and made a point of looking past John out the window. “I was knocked out by the blast. I don’t even remember arriving in the building in the first place, or threading my ring onto Anthea’s necklace. I do remember her face, though, very close. Dead. Eyes staring at me.”

He took a sip of tea and continued, “I don’t remember being relocated either. Just waking one day tied up outside, with a ruined hand, bloodied all over and a… fuzziness... about my faculties. It was like opening your eyes underwater and trying to make sense of the world. I could tell I had a head injury immediately. For days I could barely keep track of time. Barely stay awake.” A note of real distress entered his voice, “And when I was awake I just couldn’t _focus_. I could deduce where I was, who was holding me, there was no information to go on.” An unspoken, _it was terrifying_ hung between them.

John forced himself to be clinical, sensing it was what Mycroft needed. “How long did the confusion last?”

Mycroft shrugged. “The underwater feeling? It may have been days. It may have been weeks.”

“Were they feeding you? Did you have water? Dehydration wouldn’t have helped - it could make things seem worse than they were.”

Mycroft shrugged again. “There was some water. I don’t know how well I availed myself of it.”

Remembering something from the Daily Mail website, John pulled out his mobile and navigated to an image; filling the screen and obscuring the source he placed it on Mycroft’s knee.

Mycroft glanced down, considered, rotated the screen, scrutinized some more, rotated the screen and then said, “Happy Christmas to you too, John. Although that was rather a while ago.”

Hiding his relief, John said, “That was the GCHQ Director’s Christmas Puzzle.”

“Oh.” Mycroft looked back down at the screen, frowning slightly.

“You’ve had a terrible experience, Mycroft. One I both can and can’t pretend to understand, but I do know that hiding from the world is never the wrong answer.”

“People depend on me, John. The country depends on me. If I suspect that I am in any way incapable…”

Interjecting, John said, “That’s fine, Mycroft. We’ll run the appropriate tests and if you are truly unfit I will tell you. You have to trust me on that. But if I say you are going to be fine you have to trust me on that as well. You can’t predict everything: Anthea, Sherlock, those happened before you were attacked.” He reached out and placed a hand on Mycroft’s blanket covered knee. “Sometimes, Mycroft, what we do is simply not enough. And that has to be fine, because we do all we can.”

“We do all we can.” Mycroft murmured in reply.

There was a creak in the ceiling that indicated Sherlock was awake. Catching how Mycroft’s gaze flickered upwards John gave his knee a gentle squeeze, a promise that nothing would be said to the younger brother.

 

* * * * * * * * * 

Three weeks later John found himself walking slowly back towards Baker Street, soaking wet and stinking of the tideway. None of the cabs would take them, despite Sherlock’s attempts to flag one down. By the squelching with every step as he followed Sherlock it was clear his favourite shoes were ruined and his coat was only faring marginally better. The case had been a ten. _A ten!_ Sherlock had insisted, as he’d led the way down into some of the worst smelling muck John had ever contemplated. Of course, that foray was _after_ being up all night staking out a dodgy alleyway in Soho. And the day before had included trailing Sherlock through a gruesome crime scene and then sitting uselessly for hours in the lab at Bart’s.

John was stiff, sore and exhausted, and wanted nothing more than a hot shower and bed. A vibration in his pocket had him stop, wipe off his fingers as best as he could on his jeans and fish out his mobile, falling behind Sherlock’s long stride as he did so.

A text with a link to download a photo. Unknown number. No message. John frowned, prepared himself for some unspeakable horror, and clicked the link. When it loaded, he almost dropped the device in surprise. It was the childhood photo of Sherlock: hugging his dog in front of what John now considered Mycroft’s cottage.

Looking up, he found that the nearest CCTV camera was trained directly on him

The phone vibrated again, this time with a message: _Thought you’d had a long day._

A sleek black car rolled up to the kerb, looking in, John saw the empty back seat had been hastily covered in plastic. He gave a half salute of thanks towards the camera, then called ahead to make Sherlock stop walking.

Mycroft was back.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover Art] for "Stick Figures" by Joules Mer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6545923) by [Hamstermoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamstermoon/pseuds/Hamstermoon)




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